GARDEN 


ABRAM     LINWOOD  •  URBAN 


OF  THIS  FIRST  EDITION  OF 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GARDEN 

KNOWN  AS  THE  AUTHOR'S 
EDITION,  THERE  HAVE  BEEN 
PRINTED  TWO  THOUSAND 
COPIES,  OF  WHICH  NINE- 
TEEN HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY 
ARE  FOR  SALE.  THIS  COPY  IS 
PRESENTATION 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

IN   PREPARATION 

MY  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GARDEN 


VOICE  OF         E 


GARDEN 


BY 
ABRAM  LINWOOD  URBAN 

WITH    DECORATIONS   BY 

GRACE  LILLIAN   URBAN 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION 
ILLUSTRATED 


PHILADELPHIA 

THOMAS  MEEHAN  &  SONS 

1912 


Copyright,  1912 

By  THOMAS  MEEHAN  &  SONS 

Germantown,  Pa. 


To  MY  WIFE 

THE  FAIREST  FLOWER 

IN  MY  GARDEN 


2073770 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD 9 

THE  GARDEN 17 

ART  IN  THE  GARDEN 29 

SENTIMENT  IN  THE  GARDEN 51 

VOICES  IN  THE  GARDEN 71 

OUT  FROM  THE  GARDEN 87 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

INTO  THE  GARDEN 16 

ROSES  AND  HOLLYHOCKS 28 

IN  THE  ROCK  GARDEN 50 

A  GROUP  OF  FAVORITES 70 


FOREWORD 


FOREWORD 


FOREWORD 

I  VERY  gladly  write  a  word  in  welcome  to  and  in 
commendation  of  this  little  book.  Its  peculiar 
value  I  think  will  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
it  not  only  reports  an  experience  and  asks 
for  sympathy,  but  also  speaks  a  message  and 
arrests  attention.  Its  appeal  lies  not  only  to 
every  garden  lover,  but  equally  to  all  the  gar- 
den-less. The  parson  in  his  garden,  in  the  cool 
of  the  day,  thinks  much  of  and  cares  much  for 
the  man  in  the  street,  in  the  city's  dust  and 
heat.  His  book  is  an  invitation,  sent  forth 
with  so  much  winning  grace  and  so  much  lov- 
ing wisdom  that  many  will  heed  it  if  they  will 
but  read. 

It  must  be  true,  if  our  faith  in  Christ  is  true, 
that  the  only  cure  of  every  human  ill  is  spirit- 
ual. Poverty,  suffering,  disease,  however  cruel 


and  abhorrent  in  their  obvious  and  bodily 
aspects,  are  still  but  superficial  things  if  we 
think  of  them  as  related  chiefly  to  the  body. 
For  the  life  is  more  than  the  meat  even  as  the 
body  itself  is  more  than  the  raiment  it  puts  on. 
We  are  often  told  that  a  starving  body  hinders 
and  handicaps  the  soul.  That  may  be  true,  and 
yet  a  starving  soul  is  much  more  tragic  than  a 
starving  body,  and  a  starving  soul  is  not  apt  to 
be  overanxious  about  meat.  The  relief  of  bod- 
ily necessity,  however  much  it  presses  as  a  duty 
on  every  Christian  conscience,  is  by  no  means 
a  sure  method  for  the  soul's  relief.  Bodily 
comfort,  even  more  surely  than  bodily  distress, 
dulls  and  deadens  spiritual  need.  In  the  midst 
of  our  generous  haste  to  feed  and  warm  and 
heal  we  need  to  keep  the  balance  true,  and  to 
preserve  the  proportion  of  our  faith.  We  need 
to  be  reminded  that  man  does  not  and  cannot 
live  by  bread  alone,  and  that  social  service,  to 
be  Christian,  must  minister  to  so  as  to  satisfy 
man's  spiritual  hunger.  This  book  will  help  us 
at  this  point. 


It  will  also  help  us  further,  for  by  a  rich  and  FOREWORD 
delicate  suggestiveness,  it  points  out  how  full 
of  opportunity  "to  the  least  of  these,  our 
brethren,"  the  spiritual  heritage  given  to  us 
all  in  Christ  actually  is.  The  Kingdom  of  God 
is  indeed  a  true  democracy.  St.  Paul's  claim 
that  "all  things  are  ours"  by  faith  is  only  a 
comment  on  Christ's  own  promise  to  the  meek 
that  they  shall  inherit  the  earth.  Faith  is, 
after  all,  the  true  and  the  only  method  of  pos- 
session. And  faith  is  for  the  child.  "Wherefore 
do  ye  spend  money  for  that  which  is  not  bread, 
and  your  labor  for  that  which  satisfieth  not?" 
It  surely  would  not  lessen  the  eagerness  or 
spoil  the  science  of  our  philanthropy  if  we 
gave  more  consistent  and  practical  heed  to 
this  reminder.  Equality  of  opportunity  seems 
to  be  the  broadest  and  best  aspiration  we  can 
form  for  genuine  and  permanent  economic 
social  reconstruction.  We  do  well  to  labor  for 
it  with  our  utmost  diligence.  But  at  the  same 
time  it  would  make  for  an  increase  of  peace 
and  health  among  us  all,  and  for  a  deep  and 


THE  VOICE  OF  lasting  reconciliation  between  classes,  if  we 
reminded  ourselves  that  equality  of  opportun- 
ity in  spiritual  things  is  not  a  far-off  vision, 
but  a  present  fact,  and  an  unalterable  law 
by  which  God  governs  and  disposes  in  His 
Church.  The  flowers  and  the  birds  are  Christ's 
own  chosen  witnesses  to  the  love  that  knows  no 
respect  of  persons,  and  to  the  impartial  grace 
which  gives  its  choicest  fruits  "unto  this  last." 

Every  child  loves  flowers,  and  to  flower- 
loving  children  the  gates  are  open  to  the  King- 
dom and  the  Life. 

May  this  book  bring  many  to  grow  gardens 
in  their  homes  and  hearts. 

PHILIP  M.  RHINELANDER 
Bishop  of  Pennsylvania 


12] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GARDEN 


THE  GARDEN 


INTO  THE 
GARDEN 


1 6 


THE 
GARDEN 


THE  GARDEN 

THERE  is  a  very  ancient  book  in  which  it  is 
said  that  "the  Lord  God  planted  a  garden 
eastward  in  Eden  and  took  the  man  and  put 
him  in  the  garden  in  Eden  to  dress  it  and  to 
keep  it."  The  Bible  narrative  opens  with  a 
picture  of  a  man  in  a  garden.  The  story  of 
Humanity  begins  there.  Was  it  there  that 
God  meant  to  train  man  for  his  great  career? 
A  little  farther  on  in  that  old  book  we  read 
that  when  the  man  and  the  woman  whom  God 
had  placed  in  that  Eden  had  learned  to  know 
the  bitterness  of  sin  and  fear,  "they  heard  the 
voice  of  God  walking  in  the  garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  day."  Is  the  voice  of  God  still  heard  in 
the  garden?  Is  it  in  the  cool  of  the  day,  when 
the  fret  and  fever  of  life  pass  with  the  day's 
glare,  that  we  are  most  likely  to  hear  the 
[17] 


Voice  ?  I  am  sure  that  it  is  so,  and  perhaps  that 

11  i  r  i  i   • 

tells  us  why  we  so  oiten  see  the  parson  in  his 
garden. 

It  is  true  that  our  love  of  the  garden  grows 
as  we  grow  in  maturity  and  serenity  of  soul. 
The  garden  has  its  ministries  of  hope  and  peace 
for  the  troubled  mind,  and  must  not  he,  whose 
purpose  and  work  in  life  is  to  minister  to  the 
troubled  mind,  himself  have  hope  and  serenity 
of  soul  ?  It  is  a  fact  witnessed  by  the  soul  of 
man  in  all  his  history  that  there  are  such  min- 
istries of  plant  and  flower,  that  there  is  a  close 
bond  between  nature  and  man,  a  bond  that 
makes  those  ministries  real. 

That  which  mainly  accounts  for  the  charm 
of  the  garden  is,  I  think,  the  fact  that  the  gar- 
den is  something  apart.  It  is  due  to  a  true  in- 
stinct that  the  real  lover  of  the  garden  refuses 
to  make  it  an  open  and  public  display,  and 
with  wall  or  hedge  closes  it  in  and  withdraws 
it  from  the  world's  busy  life.  The  garden  is  a 
place  to  which  the  tired  in  body  or  mind  may 
come  for  calm  and  peace,  and  many  souls  have 


there  regained  mental  balance  when  great  sor- 

,      ,6  .  GARDEN 

row  had  come  to  them. 

What  it  is  that  in  the  quiet  of  the  garden 
ministers  to  the  soul  is  not  a  matter  of  doubt 
with  those  who  have  found  peace  and  serenity 
there.  It  is  something  mystical  that  draws  us 
nearer  to  those  realities  which  in  our  deepest 
moments  we  know  are  the  realities  of  greatest 
moment  to  us,  but  which,  in  the  rush  and 
struggle  of  life,  are  so  apt  to  fade  from  our 
vision.  For  it  is  in  the  silenceof  the  garden  that 
its  ministries  are  most  real  to  us — at  night, 
when  the  moonlight  throws  its  soft  veil  over 
the  sleeping  flowers,  or  in  the  early  morning, 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  our  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine. 

It  is  then  that  we  most  feel  the  beauty  of  all 
things  that  God  has  made,  and  find  in  all  the 
divine  spirit  of  love. 

I  have  said  that  the  garden  is  something 
apart.  It  is  a  small  part  of  nature  brought 
[19] 


into  closer  relation  with  us  than  the  vast  ex- 
panse of  earth  and  sky.  It  is  this  fact  that 
explains  at  least  in  part  the  peace  and  calm  so 
often  found  in  the  garden. 

I  think  we  touch  here  one  of  the  deepest 
mysteries  of  nature.  There  is  much  in  the  ex- 
ternal world  that  is  terrible  or  unfriendly  to 
man.  In  her  vast  immensity  nature  seems 
outside  and  beyond  man,  aloof  from  his  hopes 
and  fears,  his  joy  and  sorrow,  his  strivings  and 
aspirations.  How  profoundly  we  realize  this 
when  we  look  to  the  clouds  or  the  stars  above 
us,  in  the  wilderness  where  no  man  is,  or  in 
the  presence  of  the  great  mountains  which 
seem  so  impassable  and  unchangeable!  At 
such  times  nature  seems  altogether  heedless 
of  our  feelings  or  our  destiny.  This  sense  of 
nature's  infinite  side  often  lies  heavily  on  our 
souls,  and  our  increased  knowledge  of  her 
processes  makes  the  contrast  between  the 
warm  and  tender  human  heart  and  her  cold 
and  impassive,  almost  relentless,  elements 
dominate  our  imagination.  It  is  this  aspect 

[aol 


of  external  nature  which  made  the  poet  say,    THE 

.,.,..  GARDEN 

Nature,  an  infinite  unfeeling  power, 

From  some  great  center,  moving  evermore, 
Keepeth  no  festal  day  when  man  is  born, 
And  hath  no  tears  for  his  mortality. 

But  in  the  garden  we  get  another  and  wholly 
different  view  of  nature.  Here  she  comes  near 
to  us  and  speaks  in  tones  of  tenderness.  Out 
of  the  vastness  there  seem  to  come,  clothed  in 
beauty,  messengers  to  tell  us  that  the  Infinite 
Power  is  not  unmindful  of  the  small  and  seem- 
ingly insignificant,  but  that  He  clothes  the 
flower  with  beauty  and  feeds  the  birds  that 
nest  in  the  trees.  Here  nature  comes  near  to 
our  human  sympathies  as  if  to  enable  us  to 
"  see  into  the  life  of  things, "  to  give  us  proof  of 
the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the  Creator,  and 
help  us  to  know  that  what  we  see  in  the  beauty 
and  gentleness  of  the  flowers  is  part  and  parcel 
of  a  Love  which  "moves  the  sun  and  the  other 
stars. "  It  is  the  gentler  aspects  of  nature  that 
in  the  garden  soothe  and  calm  the  fretted  soul, 
that  make  us  partakers  of 

[21] 


THE  VOICE  OF  That  blessed  mood 

In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  wearyweight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened. 

But  it  is  asked,  is  not  this,  in  the  light  which 
science  pours  upon  the  garden,  after  all  a  very 
superficial  view  of  nature  even  as  we  see  it  in 
the  garden?  Do  we  not  find,  even  there,  the 
struggle  for  existence,  the  strong  killing  off  the 
weak?  Is  not  the  very  soil  in  which  your  flow- 
ers grow  rich  in  mold  that  tells  of  the  death  of 
countless  ages  of  plant  and  flower?  Yes,  it  is 
true.  "  Every  blossom  of  beauty  has  its  root 
in  fallen  leaves."  But  "there  is  a  smell  of 
violets  o'er  the  mould." 

There  is  a  life  that  survives,  and  science  has 
given  us  a  wonderfully  illuminating  word,  a 
word  which  enables  us  to  find  in  death  itself  the 
pledge  of  fulfilment  for  our  highest  aspirations. 
Science  is  teaching  us  with  a  great  emphasis 
that  life  is  an  "evolution"  from  lower  to  higher 
forms,  and  that  it  is  the  law  of  its  progress  that 

[22] 


the  lower  passes,  that  the  higher  may  come  to  THE 

r     .-        \*7u  11,1       u-     u  j-+-       GARDEN 

realization.  What  we  call  death  is  the  condition 

of  progress.   It  is  a  mark  of  advancing  life. 

What  a  wonderful  story  science  tells  of  the 
progress  of  life  from  a  simple  cell,  the  most  rud- 
imentary form  of  life,  "mounting  from  level  to 
level  on  the  ladder  of  progression,"  until  it  has 
reached  man!  In  that  minute  cell  "were  held 
all  the  possibilities  of  physical  and  spiritual  de- 
velopment which  we  see  manifest  in  cultivated, 
Christianized  man  and  woman  of  today." 

And  what  a  page  of  prophecy  it  unfolds! 
Is  not  Victor  Hugo  entirely  sane  when  he  says, 
"I  am  the  tadpole  of  an  archangel"?  He  is 
entirely  sane.  And  the  prophecy  and  promise 
includes  all  life.  While  it  strengthens  our 
sense  of  an  immortal  life,  it  includes  the  idea 
that  all  life  is  spiritual  in  its  essence,  and  that 
it  is  all  pressing  upward  for  a  higher  and  still 
higher  manifestation.  It  gives  us  ever-growing 
confidence  of  that 

One  far  off  divine  event 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

[23] 


THE  VOICE  OF  One  of  the  deepest  effects  upon  us  of  the 
gentler  aspects  of  nature  is  a  feeling  or  sense  of 
constancy  in  its  relation  to  us. 

We  pass  through  the  changing  year,  the 
coming  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  springtime, 
the  glory  of  the  golden  summer,  the  deepening 
shadows  of  autumn,  and  on  into  the  cold  of 
winter,  not  doubting  that  the  flowers  which 
seem  to  die  will  bloom  again  when  they  wake 
from  their  sleep.  We  do  not  fear  that  we  shall 
not  greet  the  old  friends  at  the  end  of  their 
night ;  and  somehow  the  feeling  grows  that  the 
mysterious  Power,  which  in  some  of  its  aspects 
seems  stern  and  hard,  is  kind  and  may  be 
trusted.  The  flowers  help  us  to  believe  the 
great  Teacher  who  assures  us  that  that  Power 
is  our  Father. 

It  is  true,  there  are  those  who  see  no  such 
truth  in  nature.  What  was  true  of  Words- 
worth's Peter  Bell  is  true  of  them— 

A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 

A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 

And  it  was  nothing  more. 

[24! 


The  mole,  burrowing  in  our  garden  beds, 
knows  nothing  of  the  hyacinth  beyond  the 
fact  that  its  bulb  is  sweet  and  wholesome  to  his 
taste.  He  sees  the  bottom  only  and  knows  not 
that  this  bulb  is  only  a  kind  of  starting-point, 
while  the  best  part  of  the  plant  is  above 
ground.  So  there  are  people  who  see  and  en- 
joy only  the  material  facts.  They  do  not  see 
"the  flower  on  the  spiritual  side."  For  them 
the  garden  has  no  mystic  meanings.  They  do 
riot  hear  the  voice  of  God  in  the  cool  of  the 
day.  The  poet's  protest  must  be  that  of  all 
souls  sensitive  to  the  divine  touch— 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing, 

God  wot, — 
Rose  plot,  fringed  pool,  ferned  grot, — 

The  veriest  school 
Of  peace,  and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God!     In  gardens  when  the  eve  is  cool? 
Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign. 
'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 


ART  IN  THE  GARDEN 


ROSES  AND    [ 
HOLLYHOCKS 


ART  IN 

THE  GARDEN- 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

THE  GARDEN  as  something  "apart"  implies 
human  appropriation  and  control  of  nature  for 
human  purpose.  It  may  be  a  work  of  art  as 
truly  as  a  painting  or  a  cathedral. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  "the  art  of  na- 
ture." Nature  in  the  wild  is  not  artistic.  Its 
beauty  is  instinctive,  spontaneous,  unpremed- 
itated. Whatever  of  art  we  see  in  nature  is 
imaginary;  we  read  it  into  nature  by  selection 
of  details  and  grouping  according  to  art  me- 
thods. Nature  in  the  garden  is  nature  tamed, 
cultivated,  made  subservient  to  human  pur- 
pose, brought  into  subjection  to  conscious 
purpose.  A  garden  is  not  merely  a  piece  of 
nature  fenced  in  near  the  house,  like  a  wolf 
chained  at  the  back  door;  but  nature  culti- 
vated and  trained  like  a  dog  tamed  and  trained 
[29] 


THE  VOICE  OF    for  human  ends.   Art  in  the  garden  is  the  hu- 

T  ""  I— I  TT    f~^*   \  O  T^  T7*  "\."" 

man  element  appropriating  and  elevating  the 
natural  for  human  purpose. 

This  does  not  mean  that  nature  is  to  be 

i 

denaturalized  or  cultivated  contrary  to  its 
instinctive  purpose,  but  that  the  instinctive 
functions  of  nature  are  to  be  lifted  into  the 
higher  human  sphere.  The  great  end  of  art  is 
not  merely  to  enable  us  to  see  the  beauty  of 
nature  but  to  take  the  material  of  beauty 
which  nature  furnishes  and  weave  it  into  a 
higher  beauty  expressive  of  human  personality. 
The  very  idea  of  the  garden  requires  that  it 
be  beautiful.  This  is  its  first  demand  upon  the  ar- 
tist, and  for  this  work  he  is  rich  in  material,  for 
he  is  to  produce  not  merely  representations  of 
nature,  but  show  us  the  living  things  of  nature 
in  such  relations  as  will  enable  us  to  see  them 
in  their  greatest  beauty.  He  is  to  bring  them 
within  the  human  sphere,  so  as  to  enhance  the 
beauty,  not  only  by  cultivation,  but  by  asso- 
ciation which  shall  make  them  expressive  of 
human  sentiment  and  feeling. 

[30] 


Here  is  the  essential  requirement  of  art  in   AR 

u  TU     /v       f  Ju  A  .  u      THE  GARDEN 

the  garden,     ihe  Lije  or  the  garden  must  be 

understood  and  its  laws  obeyed,  or  disaster  will 
overtake  us.  In  the  garden  we  deal  with  living 
things,  and  we  must  learn  from  them  the  laws 
according  to  which  they  exist  and  thrive. 
This  done,  the  living  things  will  yield  them- 
selves freely  to  our  hands,  and  reward  us  with 
a  wonderfully  enhanced  beauty. 

The/orm  which  art  in  the  garden  must  take 
depends  upon  purpose.  The  kind  of  garden 
to  be  made  determines  the  idea  or  sentiment 
which  is  to  be  given  expression. 

There  is  a  vast  difference  between  the  re- 
quirements of  a  public  park  or  the  grounds  of 
a  large  estate  and  those  of  the  more  modest 
home  garden,  and  it  is  the  home  garden  and  its 
intimacies  that  we  have  in  mind  in  these  pages. 

It  is  also  true  that  the  environment  of  the 
home  garden  may  require  more  formal  treat- 
ment, or  less,  as  the  case  may  be;  but  the  im- 
portant thing  is  that  the  home  garden  shall 
express  the  home  idea  and  the  home  feeling. 

[31] 


It  may  also  as  properly  reflect  the  individual- 
THE  GARDEN    .         /.  ,  ,  J      •      ,  .      f 

ity  or  its  maker  as  does  the  house  or  its  fur- 
nishings. Above  all,  it  should  be  evident  that 
the  garden  is  part  of  the  home,  as  really  and 
evidently  so  as  is  the  house  itself  or  any  room 
within  the  house.  The  plan  must  include  the 
whole  home  area.  Here  we  find  the  main  for- 
mative principle  of  art  in  the  garden. 

This  sentiment  which  we  call  the  home  feel- 
ing absolutely  forbids  public  display.  Its  first 
demand  is  the  demand  for  privacy.  The  gar- 
den should,  therefore,  always  suggest  retire- 
ment. This  marks  the  garden  as  peculiarly 
one's  own,  and  makes  of  it  a  kind  of  sanctum. 
Otherwise  it  might  as  well  be  public  property. 

If  the  desire  for  retirement  is  to  be  gratified, 
if  the  garden  is  to  be  something  apart,  it  must 
have  definitely  marked  boundaries.  They 
separate  the  home  from  the  outside  world. 
They  shut  out  the  big  world  and  suggest  what 
home  should  always  be: — a  refuge,  a  safe  and 
pleasant  harbor.  They  exclude  the  vulgar 
things  of  the  street.  Reverence  for  the  sacred 

[32] 


things  of  life  demands  it.  Good  taste  demands   ART  IN 

it  THE  GARDE> 

The  garden  should  be  a  resting-place  for 
weary  eyes,  or  head,  or  heart. 

It  is  this  idea  of  the  home  that  should  deter- 
mine the  unity  of  design  for  the  garden.  The 
home  idea  requires  not  only  harmony  of  the 
parts  of  the  garden  itself,  but  unity  as  the 
whole  of  the  home,  including  house  and  other 
buildings  and  grounds  intended  for  other  pur- 
poses. 

Several  things  will  contribute  greatly  to  this 
effect.  The  house  should  with  appropriate 
plantings  be  "tied  down"  to  the  ground,  as  if 
it  grew  there  as  part  of  the  design.  The  expert 
will  tell  us  how  to  do  that  most  effectively,  but 
the  one  thing  to  be  kept  in  mind  is  to  make  the 
house  so  manifestly  a  part  of  the  design  that 
one  cannot  think  of  the  garden  without  the 
house,  or  of  the  house  without  the  garden. 
Then  the  approach  to  the  house  and  the  walks 
leading  from  the  house  to  the  more  retired 
parts  of  the  garden  may  be  made  to  contribute 
[33] 


OF  greatly  to  the  impression  of  unity  and  the  feel- 
s  ing  of  home.  Especially  should  the  garden  be 
open  to  view  from  doors  and  windows,  that  in 
all  seasons  and  in  all  kinds  of  weather  one  may 
realize  the  oneness  of  the  home.  In  other 
words,  the  relation  of  house  and  garden  should 
be  close,  so  that  passing  from  one  into  the 
other  will  be  as  natural  as  passing  from  room 
to  room  within  the  house. 

The  garden  itself  should  have  an  air  of  re- 
pose. As  we  enter  some  room  of  the  house  with 
a  sense  of  its  air  of  more  personal  interest  and 
privacy,  so  we  should  be  made  to  feel  as  we  go 
into  the  garden  that  here  is  a  place  apart  from 
the  world's  busy  life  where  we  may  find  rest 
and  peace.  We  should  find  what  John  Henry 
Newman  meant  by  a  "garden  mystically." 
It  should  be  "a  place  of  spiritual  repose,  still- 
ness, peace,  refreshment,  delight." 

For  what  we  call  expression  in  the  garden, 
as  well  as  in  the  house,  nothing  is  more  essen- 
tial than  a  certain  air  of  refinement  always  rec- 
ognizable. The  requirement  whether  in  house 

[34] 


or  garden  is  an  educated  taste.  In  the  garden  ART  IN 
it  will  be  seen  in  the  selection  of  plants  and 
flowers  and  their  grouping,  and  in  the  sparing 
use  of  architectural  decorations.  It  forbids 
anything  that  produces  confusion.  It  removes 
angularity  and  harshness.  It  reveals  itself  in 
gracefulness  of  lines,  easiness  of  transitions, 
and  in  sparing  use  of  striking  contrasts.  It  will 
not  permit  the  grotesque,  whether  in  plants  or 
fantastic  arrangement  of  beds.  It  refuses  to 
give  room  to  the  eccentric.  It  always  recog- 
nizes the  fitness  of  things. 

It  follows  that  to  express  successfully  what 
I  have  called  the  home  feeling  there  must  be 
present  that  element  in  pure  beauty  which  is 
called  simplicity. 

Simplicity  is  the  opposite  of  ostentation, 
extravagance,  elaboration,  all  sins  against  a 
refined  taste,  whether  within  the  house  or  out- 
side of  it.  We  need,  however,  to  discriminate. 
Simplicity  does  not  mean  poverty  of  expres- 
sion. It  does  not  require  that  the  design  be 
bald  or  severe  any  more  than  it  requires  a  face 

[35] 


rOICE  OF  to  be  dull,  tame,  and  void  of  expression.  A 
'  refined  taste  does  not  exclude  richness  and 
polish  in  the  furnishing  of  a  house  or  garden. 
It  does  not  mean  bareness  or  a  dearth  of  flow- 
ers. What  correct  taste  demands  are  purity  and 
right  feeling  in  the  expression  of  sentiment. 

In  the  garden  the  grace  and  charm  of  nature 
should  be  at  their  highest,  and  here  the  artist  of 
the  garden  has  his  finest  work  to  do.  While, 
perhaps,  his  hand  should  seem  to  touch  it 
lightly,  yet  here  the  touch  must  be  most  effect- 
ive. Here  is  where  beauty  in  form  and  beauty 
in  color  will  contribute  most;  yet  if  care  be  not 
taken  they  will  jar  with  a  sense  of  perpetual 
discord.  It  is  here  that  we  find  the  soul  of  the 
garden,  and  it  should  have  that  play  of  fea- 
tures that  constitutes  its  life,  its  spirit,  and  its 
charm. 

Truest  simplicity  is  entirely  consistent  with 
variety  and  artful  arrangement  of  groups  of 
plants,  producing  different  vistas  from  differ- 
ent points  of  view,  and  providing  delightful 
retreats  in  shade  and  little  nooks  where  some 

[36] 


of  the  sweetest  flowers  delight  to  grow  and  AR 
blossom.  While  a  good  open  lawn  is  indispen- 
sable, plants  may  be  grouped,  where  space  per- 
mits, that  through  and  among  these  may  be 
smaller  glades,  giving  the  place  that  air  of  in- 
definiteness  so  alluring  to  the  meditative  mind. 
To  repeat,  the  garden  must  be  beautiful. 
It  is  the  task  of  the  artist  of  the  garden  to  help 
us  to  see  its  beauty  at  its  highest.  To  this  end 
nature  contributes  two  elements — beauty  in 
form  and  beauty  in  color.  These  elements  of 
beauty  appear  in  different  proportions  in  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  art,  and  human  appreciations 
of  them  differ.  It  will  be  enlightening  to  note 
how  nature  uses  them.  She  makes  free  use  of 
both,  but  not  without  some  sense  of  propor- 
tion. She  lightens  and  glorifies  her  forms  with 
all  the  tints  and  tones  of  color,  delicate  and 
chaste  here,  rich  and  flashing  with  glorious 
beauty  there;  but  no  one  can  study  a  land- 
scape, or  a  small  section  of  it,  without  seeing 
how  greatly  its  grace  and  charm  are  due  to  its 
lines,  now  wavy  and  undulating,  again  straight 

[37] 


THE  VOICE  OF  and  stately,  opening  exhaustless  stores  for  the 
*  imagination.  This  seems  to  be  the  ground- 
work in  nature's  plan,  and  it  should  be  the 
main  consideration  in  a  plan  for  the  garden. 
It  will  determine  the  main  features  of  the  gar- 
den, the  direction  and  curves  of  its  walks,  the 
position  and  outlines  of  all  the  clumps  and 
beds. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  imagine  a  garden 
without  flowers,  yet  I  do  accept  the  very  revo- 
lutionary statement  of  a  recent  writer  on  land- 
scape gardening  that  "a  garden  may  be  abso- 
lutely flowerless  and  yet  be  lovely,"  and  that 
"one  may  have  a  world  of  flowers  and  yet  have 
no  garden  in  the  true  sense."  I  am  very  sure 
that  the  loveliness  which  the  flowers  contrib- 
ute to  the  garden  is  wonderfully  enhanced 
when  we  give  them  the  place  that  this  writer 
gives  them.  She  holds  them  to  be  "the  gar- 
den's jewels — the  bright  gems  with  which  its 
design  is  embellished  and  'picked  out,'  as  a 
jeweler  would  say."  This  idea  requires  that 
the  flowers  be  given  a  proper  setting  and 

[38] 


worked  into  proper  relations  with  plant  life  in  t 

.         .  1-11-  i      THE  GARDEN 

the  garden,  just  as  the  jeweler  brings  out  the 

beauty  of  ruby  or  opal  in  the  setting  or  pattern 
in  metal  in  which  he  places  it. 

The  controversy  between  the  two  great 
schools  of  landscape  architecture,  the  formal 
and  the  informal,  need  not  confuse  us.  The 
simple  fact  that  the  home  garden  must  be  re- 
lated to  the  house,  which  is  artificial  and  for- 
mal, requires  a  more  or  less  formal  treatment 
of  the  garden,  especially  in  the  approach  to 
the  house  and  the  carrying  out  of  architec- 
tural lines  from  the  house  outward  and  into 
the  garden.  This  is  required  by  the  fundamen- 
tal laws  which  govern  proportion  and  design. 
It  is  necessary  to  a  natural  and  logical  transi- 
tion from  the  artificial  structure  of  wood  or 
stone  to  the  creations  of  nature  in  the  garden. 
The  garden  mediates  between  the  house,  the 
most  formal  kind  of  art,  and  nature,  which  is 
entirely  lacking  in  art.  The  garden  makes  the 
house  and  home  a  part  of  the  larger  life  of  the 
world,  binding  them  to  nature,  at  the  same 

[39] 


£  VOICE  OF  time  that  it  preserves  its  privacy  and  aristoc- 

THE  GARDEN  .        .  ,  , 

racy,  showing  man  above  and  supreme  over 

nature. 

If  the  garden  be  too  formal  it  makes  the 
home  too  separate  from  the  larger  life,  too  con- 
ventional, "unnatural."  If  it  be  too  natural, 
and  careless,  and  artless,  it  fails  to  mark  that 
rising  above  mere  nature  by  culture  and  cul- 
tivation which  art  symbolizes,  and  which 
civilized  home  ought  to  mean. 

It  is  this  evidence  of  intelligent  human  con- 
trol of  nature  that  gives  to  the  formal  in  art  its 
severe  and  stately  beauty.  It  imparts  to  the 
garden  a  dignity  which  it  could  not  otherwise 
have,  and  for  that  air  of  repose  which  every 
garden  should  have  there  must  be  an  impres- 
sion of  dignity.  But  if  the  beauty  be  lacking 
in  the  grace  and  charm  which  greater  freedom 
gives  to  plant  and  flower  we  do  not  find  in  it 
that  refreshment  of  mind  and  heart  which  we 
seek  in  communion  with  nature. 

It  would  seem,  therefore,  that  the  most  com- 
pletely satisfying  style  is  what  one  has  aptly 

[40! 


called  the  "gardenesque, "  a  combination  of  ART  IN 

u    f          i       A-   f          1-  u  THE  GARDEN 

the  formal  and  informal  in  such  a  way  as  to  set 

the  garden  apart  from  untamed  nature,  and 
yet  give  us  its  informal  grace  in  a  certain  free- 
dom of  growth  permissible  within  a  more  or 
less  formal  design. 

Something  of  this  we  should  seek  to  realize 
in  our  gardens.  But  that  is  not  all  that  we  may 
have.  The  beauty  of  form  and  color  merely 
as  such  does  not  constitute  the  whole  of  the 
charm  of  your  garden  and  mine.  The  garden 
implies  the  human  presence  and  interest.  It 
is  a  place  for  thought  and  for  dreams,  and  as 
we  grow  in  intimacy  with  the  flowers  and  bet- 
ter understand  their  language,  they  come  to 
have  a  new  and  higher  beauty.  It  might  be 
called  the  beauty  of  suggestion.  We  link  the 
material  with  the  spiritual  world,  and  the 
more  intimately  we  enter  into  the  life  of  nature 
the  more  surely  does  the  material  become 
spiritualized. 

That  which  I  hold  to  be  the  main  formative 
principle  of  art  in  the  garden — that  which  uses 
[41] 


THE  VOICE  OF   nature  for  the  expression  of  human  sentiment 

. 

and  so  humanizes  and  spiritualizes  nature- 
may  be  worked  out  in  many  ways.  One  way  to 
accent  this  human  element  in  the  garden  is  to 
place  in  it  accessories  of  the  nature  of  garden 
furniture.  Of  course,  unless  the  garden  be  spa- 
cious, it  is  a  mistake  to  crowd  in  such  acces- 
sories. But  no  garden,  however  small,  is  alto- 
gether complete  if  it  lack  a  seat  or  two  located 
in  some  spot  conducive  to  quiet  thought,  with 
some  fragrant  thing,  such  as  the  Sweet  Brier, 
growing  near,  and  some  charming  bits  of  the 
garden  to  be  easily  seen.  And  whatever  else  is 
missing  in  the  garden,  the  sun-dial  must  not  be 
lacking.  The  sun-dial  has  been  beautifully 
called  the  "garden  altar."  Is  it  not  fitting? 
Nothing  so  impressively  sounds  the  religious 
note  of  the  garden.  'There  is  a  mystery  of 
eternity  in  a  sun-dial"  as  it  marks  the  shadows 
passing.  "Amidst  ye  floweres  I  tell  ye  houres" 
is  a  very  old  motto  for  the  dial  face,  and  noth- 
ing tells  us  better  of  life  passing  on  into  eter- 
nity. The  sun-dial  should  be  placed  in  the  very 

[42] 


heart  of  the  garden,  that  from  it  we  may  look  AR 
in  every  direction. 

Such  is  what  I  have  ventured  to  call  the 
beauty  of  suggestion;  but  there  is  another  ele- 
ment of  beauty  of  spiritual  quality  which  the 
garden  may  have  in  a  high  degree.  As  the  gar- 
den grows,  association  touches  it  more  and 
more  with  a  spiritual  beauty.  Each  plant,  as 
we  watch  and  care  for  it,  acquires  a  little  his- 
tory of  its  own,  and  about  many  a  spot  or  plant 
tender  memories  of  those  we  love  are  gathered. 
And  so  our  gardens  become  rich  in  poetry  and 
history. 

This  is  why  for  me  a  garden  must  have  trees, 
if  possible  old  trees,  in  it,  for  nothing  in  nature 
suggests  so  much  of  the  spiritual,  nothing  so 
gathers  traditions  about  it,  as  do  the  trees.  A 
garden  without  trees  must  always  be  incom- 
plete. It  is  music  lacking  the  strong  chords 
that  give  dignity  and  deep  harmony  to  the 
composition.  Lacking  the  shade  and  shadow, 
the  landscape  composition  in  an  esthetic  as- 
pect falls  as  far  short  of  fulness  and  meaning. 
[43] 


But  for  me  there  is  deeper  reason  for  the 
THE  GARDEN  .  c  ,      , 

trees  in  my  garden.  Sentiment  demands  them. 

What  so  human  as  an  old  tree  around  which 
family  traditions  have  clustered  for  genera- 
tions! What  in  nature  so  spiritual  as  the  ether- 
ialized  trees  on  a  winter  evening  when  twi- 
light settles  down  chill  and  still,  or  the  length- 
ening shadows  of  a  day  in  summer  as  it  grows 
toward  the  night!  Then  too  the  garden  has 
its  voices,  not  only  of  suggestion,  but  actual 
audible  voices,  most  of  which  would  be  lost  to 
us  were  the  trees  not  there.  The  birds,  where 
would  they  nest  but  for  their  homes  in  the 
trees  ? 

How  we  would  miss  the  call  of  the  robin 
from  the  tree-tops,  or  the  pretty  plaintive  notes 
of  the  blue  bird!  Poor  indeed  is  the  garden  in 
which  birds  find  no  homes.  And  the  wind,  that 
"oldest  of  master  musicians,"  how  we  would 
miss  his  hymnings  among  the  dark  leafage! 
What  would  the  garden  be  without  the  green 
of  grass  and  the  sheltering  trees  with  the  sha- 
dows as  they  come  and  shift  and  steal  away? 

[44] 


This  beauty  of  association  can  hardly  be  AR 
thought  to  come  within  the  scope  of  the  artist's 
work.  It  is  a  spiritual  quality.  It  is  a  matter 
for  spiritual  perception  rather  than  visual.  It 
must  come  with  the  growth  of  the  garden.  It 
will  be  part  of  its  history.  But  if  the  architect 
of  the  garden  has  the  soul  of  the  poet,  as  he 
must  have  to  be  an  artist  at  all,  he  will  know 
how  to  give  the  whole  an  atmosphere  in  which 
such  sentiments  will  be  at  home. 

After  all,  the  real  lover  of  the  garden  will 
make  it  with  a  view  to  intimate  friendship  with 
the  living  things  there.  The  true  lover  of 
nature  will  know  my  meaning.  Others  will 
not.  There  are  those  whose  eyes  are  wide  open 
and  they  see  accurately  and  quickly,  but  the 
soul  is  closed.  Some  of  us  want  a  chance  of 
dreaming.  There  are  those  who  care  little  or 
nothing  at  all  for  what  cannot  be  seen  with 
eyes,  touched  with  hands,  and  expressed  in 
color.  Others  value  the  numberless  shades  of 
feeling  which  come  to  them  as  they  linger 
among  the  things  of  the  garden. 

[45] 


The  garden  should  be,  not  merely  a  picture 

THE  GARDEN         ,,  11-       u          u          r     *u    u 

to  look  at  and  admire,  but  a  home  tor  the  beau- 
tiful living  things.  If  flowers  have,  as  I  believe, 
a  language  of  their  own,  we  want  to  be  on 
familiar  terms.  We  want  to  get  close  to  them 
where  we  can  bend  the  ear  to  hear  their  tones. 
I  like,  when  I  walk  in  my  garden,  to  find  my 
friends  in  the  familiar  places;  a  quiet,  shady 
spot  here,  a  little  nook  there,  where  each  sweet 
face  looks  up  to  me  as  if  they  knew  as  well  as  I 
some  fine  secret  not  to  be  told  aloud,  but 
learned  by  such  as  love  the  gentle  flowers. 

It  must  be  evident  that  the  garden,  the  real, 
the  satisfying  garden,  cannot  be  made  to  order. 
It  must  grow.  Not  only  must  the  plants  and 
trees  grow,  but  the  garden  as  a  garden  must 
gradually  take  on  character  as  the  soul  of  its 
owner  and  maker  gives  expression  to  the  senti- 
ment which  inspires  his  work.  I  have  said  "  its 
owner  and  maker,"  for  in  the  end  one  must 
make  his  own  garden. 

I  value  greatly  the  work  of  the  real  land- 
scape architect.  He  can  do  for  us  what  most  of 

[46] 


us  cannot  do  for  ourselves.  He  should  be  AR 
trusted  to  determine  the  leading  features  of 
the  place  and  the  relative  importance  to  be 
given  to  its  parts,  but  the  details  should  be 
determined  as  the  garden  develops,  and  if  the 
homemaker  has  the  true  instinct,  his  plants 
will  gradually  appear  where  they  are  most  ex- 
pressive of  the  best  emotions. 

The  landscape  architect  can  give  the  human 
element  to  the  garden,  that  is,  he  can  mark  out 
its  chief  features  in  relation  to  the  home;  but 
only  the  owner  can  give  the  more  personal  ele- 
ment by  making  it  expressive  of  his  personal 
soul.  It  is  he  who  must  give  it  the  more  deli- 
cate artistic  touch. 

The  garden  to  be  a  garden  must  be  filled 
with  the  personal  element.  When  the  archi- 
tect's work  is  done,  it  remains  for  the  one  who 
is  to  possess  and  enjoy  it  to  stamp  upon  it  that 
character  which  reflects  the  soul  of  its  maker. 

It  is  not  enough  that  the  soul  of  nature  be 
in  the  garden.  The  human  soul  must  be  there 
in  acknowledged  kinship. 

[47] 


SENTIMENT  IN  THE  GARDEN 


IN  THE  ROCK 
GARDEN 


SENTIMENT 

IN  THE  GARDEN 


SENTIMENT  IN  THE  GARDEN 

IN  MY  garden  there  is  a  large  place  for  senti- 
ment. My  garden  of  flowers  is  also  my  garden 
of  thoughts  and  of  dreams.  The  thoughts  grow 
as  freely  as  the  flowers,  and  the  dreams  are  as 
beautiful. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Are  knowledge 
and  skill  all  that  is  essential  to  successful  work 
and  real  enjoyment  in  the  garden? 

It  is  true,  sentiment  may  have  little  or  no 
place  in  the  work  of  the  expert  whom  you  pay 
in  money.  It  is  true,  also,  that  in  the  scheme  of 
the  practical  man  of  affairs  who  has  managed 
his  affairs  so  well  that  he  can  spend  large  sums 
in  collecting  rare  plants  and  producing  elab- 
orate display,  sentiment  may  furnish  no  mo- 
tive, may  contribute  nothing  to  the  pleasure. 
He  may  do  all  that  merely  because  he  has  cul- 

[51] 


OF  tivated  a  passion  for  doing  things  on  a  large 
1  scale,  or  from  love  of  display. 

But  not  so  the  true  lover  of  the  flowers.  For 
him  the  garden  must  be  a  garden  for  his 
thoughts  as  well  as  for  his  flowers.  The  garden 
would  lose  much  of  its  charm,  the  flowers  of 
their  sweetness,  and  the  trees  of  their  mystery, 
if  divested  of  the  sentiment  with  which  the 
imagination  and  memory  clothe  them. 

In  the  garden  we  face  large  questions.  Is  it 
true  that  "only  to  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
flowers  are  the  joys  of  gardening  revealed"? 
The  intimate  friend  of  the  flowers!  Is  there 
something  real  in  our  use  of  this  word  "  friend  " 
in  speakingof  a  man's  relations  with  the  flowers  ? 
May  we,  indeed,  carry  into  our  relations  with 
the  flowers  something  like  the  beautiful  reality 
which  in  things  human  we  call  friendship?  Is 
there  in  any  degree  a  community  of  interest 
and  pleasure  between  plant  and  man  ?  Is  there 
something  like  consciousness  in  plant  life? 

We  are  familiar  with  the  sentiment  which 
poets  have  read  into  this  thought.  We  recall 

[52] 


the  exquisite  lines  by  Wordsworth  in  "  Early 
Spring,"  when,  feeling  nature  linking  his  hu- 
man soul  to  her  fair  works,  he  wrote— 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 

To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

That  the  plants  are  conscious,  that  they  are 
capable  of  "pleasure,"  enjoying  the  air  they 
breathe,  that  is  the  poet's  belief;  not  a  pretty 
fancy,  but  his  serious  belief,  for  in  these  lines 
we  have  the  essence  of  Wordsworth's  nature. 
Is  it  possible,  then,  not  only  that  man  may  be 
the  friend  of  the  flowers,  but  that  the  flowers 
may  be  friends  to  him? 

Does  Longfellow  touch  reality  when  he  says— 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us  by  most  persuasive  reasons 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things? 

[53] 


Is  Browning  less  sane  than  elsewhere  when 
THE  GARDEN  ,       ,     , 

he  declares, 

For  many  a  thrill 

Of  kinship  I  confess  to,  with  the  powers 
Called  nature;   animate,  inanimate, 
In  part  or  in  the  whole,  there's  something  there 
Manlike,  that  somehow  meets  the  man  in  me? 

Or  Emerson  when  he  says,  "The  greatest 
delight  the  fields  and  woods  minister  is  the  sug- 
gestion of  an  occult  relation  between  man  and 
the  vegetable.  I  am  not  alone  and  unacknowl- 
edged. They  nod  to  me  and  I  to  them"  ? 

Of  course,  poetic  reflection  is  not  scientific 
evidence.  But  does  the  scientist,  by  his 
methods,  discern  the  deepest  and  highest  truth 
of  nature?  Do  we  not  all  at  times  realize  that 
for  real  interpretation  of  nature  there  must  be 
the  soul  of  a  poet  and  the  gift  of  an  artist? 
The  artist  often  tells  us  that  in  his  pictures  he 
has  striven  to  express  what  he  calls  the  "moods 
of  nature. "  Of  course,  it  may  be  said  that  the 
artist  means  merely  his  own  moods  as  they 

[54] 


are  aroused  by  nature.    But  may  there  not  SENTIMENT 
be  a  deeper  truth  in  the  artist's  use  of  these  ' 
words?   May  it  not  be  that  to  his  truer  sight, 
and  because  of  his  profounder  sympathy,  na- 
ture reveals  more  of  her  mysteries  ? 

Still,  let  us  ask  Science  what  it  has  to  say 
upon  this  subject.  Does  modern  science  have 
anything  to  say?  The  fact  is,  prominent  scien- 
tists are  saying  some  startling  things.  For  ex- 
ample, Darwin,  son  of  the  great  Darwin,  as 
president  of  the  Royal  Society  of  England,  in 
his  annual  address  several  years  ago,  declared 
his  belief  that  plant  life  is  conscious,  and  he  is 
reported  to  have  made  the  statement  that  it  is 
"possessed  of  faculties  up  to  memory";  and 
many  biologists  and  psychologists  share  his 
views.  Many  will  recall  the  elder  Darwin's  fine 
enthusiasm,  who,  while  always  strictly  scien- 
tific in  his  methods,  never  stating  anything  but 
uncolored  fact,  was  filled  with  wonder  and  awe 
in  his  study  of  the  lives  and  conduct  of  plants, 
indicating  to  his  mind  something  much  like 
human  intelligence. 
[55] 


THE  VOICE  OF  It  is  true,  there  may  as  yet  be  insufficient 
evidence  of  a  decisive  character,  as  the  scien- 
tist understands  evidence,  of  the  correctness 
of  Darwin's  view,  but  there  are  indications 
which  no  true  scientist  will  ignore.  All  recog- 
nize certain  responses  of  plant  life  to  various 
influences  which  are  "selective"  rather  than 
mechanical.  Consider  the  beautiful  adapta- 
tions by  which  plants  have  secured  favorable 
conditions,  adaptations  which,  to  use  the  elder 
Darwin's  words,  "in  manifold  ways  transcend 
in  an  incomparable  manner  the  contrivances 
and  adaptations  which  the  most  fertile  imagi- 
nation of  man  could  invent." 

Consider  how  the  roots  of  a  plant  choose 
from  the  soil  the  food  which  it  needs,  one 
selecting  lime  as  its  preferred  food,  another 
magnesia,  another  potash.  What  close  obser- 
ver of  plants  does  not  know  that  they  are  sen- 
sitive, and  under  certain  conditions  even  irri- 
table ?  Observe  them  in  their  work  and  in  their 
rest,  when  they  wake  and  when  they  sleep,  and 
see  whether  there  is  not  something  there  very 

[56] 


much  like  nerves.  We  know  how  the  Sensitive  ! 

DI  -n  u    u  •    i    1-1          u  IN  THE  GARDEN 

riant  will  at  a  touch  shrink  like  a  hurt  thing. 

That  this  plant  has  something  like  a  nervous 
system  seems  to  be  proved  by  the  fact  that 
narcotics  weaken  its  sensibility.  It  may  be  put 
to  sleep  with  chloroform.  If  opium  be  sprin- 
kled upon  it,  it  ceases  to  feel  irritants.  When 
any  sudden  irritantaffects  it,  it  will  quickly  close 
its  leaves,  and  if  the  same  influence  continues, 
it  will  resume  its  open  leaves,  as  if  it  had  been 
surprised  at  the  sudden  touch.  On  a  fair  day  a 
few  drops  of  water  will  cause  the  leaflets  to 
close,  but  the  plant  soon  becomes  accustomed 
to  a  continuous  spray  and  the  leaflets  remain 
wide  open.  An  eminent  botanist  says  that  if  one 
of  the  plants  be  placed  in  a  wagon  the  jar  will 
cause  it  to  close  its  leaves,  but  after  a  drive  of  a 
few  miles  the  leaflets  will  open,  as  if  it  said  to 
itself,  "There  is  no  harm  in  this  kind  of  jarring.'* 
It  has  been  noticed  that  when  the  sleep  of 
plants  is  broken  for  several  successive  nights, 
or  when  violently  shaken  by  the  wind  in  the 
afternoon,  they  suffer  from  insomnia  as  we  do. 

[57] 


Fasten  open  their  leaves  and  so  prevent  their 
ib  GAR  ,    ,  .,,      .  ,  ,    ,. 

repose,  and  they  will  wither  and  die. 

The  philosopher,  too,  has  a  word  to  say  on 
this  subject.  For  where  is  to  be  drawn  the  line 
between  conscious  and  unconscious  activity? 
Philosophically  it  is  more  probable  that  all  life 
is  conscious  in  different  degrees  than  that  there 
is  a  dualism,  part  conscious,  and  part -un- 
conscious. 

It  would  be  difficult  for  us  to  say  what  kind 
of  consciousness  plants  have  without  more 
light  on  the  subject;  but  surely  there  is  abun- 
dant room  for  reflection  as  we  move  among  our 
flowers  or  roam  through  wood  and  field. 

How  far,  then,  may  a  sane  man  who  has 
in  his  life  a  place  for  sentiment  press  this 
thought  of  community  of  interest  and  pleas- 
ure with  his  flowers  without  being  merely 
fanciful  ? 

How  far  in  the  evolution  of  life  the  plant 
has  come  we  may  not  know,  but  I  am  far  from 
denying  what  the  poet  has  long  loved  to  be- 
lieve and  the  scientist  now  tells  us  may  be  true. 

[58] 


I  do  not  find  it  very  difficult  to  believe,  with  SENTIMENT 

f     ,  •     «.     u-i         u         .u         i  INTHE  GARDEN 

one  or   the  ancient  philosophers,  that  plants 

have  mind,  pain,  pleasure,  desire,  even  knowl- 
edge. 

This  much  is  true,  both  the  poet  and  the 

scientist  compel  deeper  reflection,  and  give  to 

the  things  which  appeal  to  my  senses  a  more 

spiritual  quality.   I  am  sure  that  no  sane  man 

can  touch  such  questions  as  this  without  a 

sense  of  awe.    In  the  presence  of  the  tiniest 

blade  of  grass  or  the  simplest  flower  we  face  the 

great  mystery,  the  mystery  of  life;  and  all  life, 

I  must  believe,  is  spiritual  in  its  essence.    The 

plant  is  simply  a  lower  form  of  the  same  divine 

energy  which  is  in  man,  and  is  groping,  as 

Emerson   says,   "upward   towards  conscious- 
ness. "  Surely  there  is  occasion  for  wonder,  and 

something  of  the  reverence  which  Tennyson 

felt  before  the  little  flower   in  the  crannied 

wall- 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

[59] 


It  becomes  a  man  to  consider  the  humblest 
THE  GARDEN    a  ,  .  ,        f    ..          f 

rlower  that  grows  with  a  reeling  or  reverence 

and  worship,  for  it  is  itself  a  thought,  a  plan,  of 
God.  And  more  than  that,  for  to  it  God  has 
given  something  of  Himself.  He  has  given  life 
to  it. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  paintings  of  the 
great  masters,  nothing  in  statuary,  nothing 
in  the  most  elaborate  decorations  of  architect- 
ure, to  be  compared  with  the  simple  grace, 
the  delicate  tints,  the  perfect  harmony  of  a 
flower. 

The  glories  of  art  are  dead  things,  but  the 
little  flower  is  filled  with  the  divine  energy 
of  life;  and  as  we  look  upon  the  world  more 
widely,  and  into  its  secrets  more  deeply,  we 
are  more  and  more  compelled  to  confess  but 
One  Life  pervading  the  universe. 

This  little  excursion  into  the  region  of  phi- 
losophy has  shown  us  that  the  garden  does  fur- 
nish cause  for  the  deepest  of  all  sentiments, 
wonder,  reverence,  and  worship.  The  flowers 
bring  the  soul  of  man  into  an  attitude  receptive 

[661 


to   spiritual   teaching.    They   teach   humility  SI-'.NTIMKNT 
and  faith. 

What  beautiful  thoughts  grow  in  our  "gar- 
den of  thoughts"!  The  flowers  and  the 
thoughts  grow  together.  Sentiment  gathers 
about  them  as  surely  as  their  own  perfume. 
The  very  history  of  the  plants  is  full  of  poetry 
and  romance. 

To  write  the  romance  of  "Social  Botany" 
will  require  a  gifted  pen,  and  when  written  it 
will  be  an  entrancing  tale.  Go  into  your  gar- 
den and  ask  your  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers 
whence  they  came,  and  they  wTill  tell  you  of 
seedlings  collected  in  forests  and  of  seeds  ob- 
tained from  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth, 
many  of  them  secured  through  adventure  and 
peril,  the  recital  of  which  compels  admiration, 
and  brought  to  their  present  perfection  by  a 
patient  application  of  scientific  method  in  hy- 
bridization of  which  the  untrained  mind  can 
form  no  adequate  conception. 

Who  can  look  upon  a  "  Dawson  "  rose,  know- 
ing its  history,  and  not  let  thought  go  back  to 


rOICE  OF  the  little  garden  of  the  Harvard  wizard  where 
he  produced,  by  mating  many  parent  roses,  at 
last  an  offspring  so  perfect?  One  grandparent 
of  the  "Dawson"  is  the  "Wichuriana"  from 
Japan,  the  other  the  Chinese  "Multiflora." 
Their  offspring  mated  with  "General  Jac- 
queminot," and  they  are  the  parents  of  the 
"Dawson." 

Ask  your  beautiful  Irish  "Killarney,"  or 
your  gorgeous  "American  Beauty,"  the  story 
of  their  descent,  and  they  will  point  to  a  line  of 
ancestry  reaching  back  in  known  history  to 
the  Crusades.  Thibault,  the  redoubtable  Cru- 
sader, brought  the  first  of  those  ancestors 
from  Damascus  and  gave  it  a  home  in  the  soil 
of  gentle  Provence,  France.  There  a  son  of 
Henry  III  of  England  found  it  growing,  carried 
it  home,  and  as  Earl  of  Lancaster  took  it  for 
his  device.  Rival  claimants  to  the  English 
'  throne  adopted  it  as  their  emblem,  Red  Rose  of 
Lancaster  and  White  Rose  of  York  warring, 
until  Henry  VII  of  the  Red  took  Elizabeth  of 
the  White  as  consort.  Thus  the  rose  brought 

[62] 


by  the  Crusaders  from  Damascus  became  the 

•        ,  n  r  TT     ,       i       u        -,  .        ,    A    IN  THE  GARDEN 

national  tlower  or  hngland,  where  it  has  had 

its  most  congenial  home  and  developed  its 
highest  perfection. 

The  annals  of  the  rose  tell  no  finer  story  than 
that  of  the  mating  of  the  "Sweet  Brier," 
sweetest  of  all  wild  flowers,  with  a  descendant 
of  the  "Damascus"  brought  to  England  in  the 
Crusades.  That  marriage  was  brought  about 
by  Lord  Penzance,  and  to  it  we  owe  the  beauti- 
ful scented  roses  known  as  "Penzance  Briers." 

How  close  to  us  the  flowers  come !  How  hu- 
man and  near  to  the  affections  they  seem! 
Linger  by  the  old  favorites  in  the  old  home 
garden.  What  beautiful  associations  they  re- 
call, what  tender  memories  cluster  about  them! 
The  Aster,  classic  flower  sung  by  Virgil;  the 
Columbine,  itself  like  a  cluster  of  doves; 
Canterbury  Bells,  recalling  the  pilgrims  to  the 
ancient  shrine;  Iris,  Ruskin's  flower  of  chiv- 
alry, "with  a  sword  for  its  leaf  and  a  lily  for 
its  heart";  the  Paeony,  flower  of  distinct  an- 
tiquity, cultivated  since  the  days  of  Pliny, 
[63] 


flower  queen  among  the  Chinese  and  believed 
to  be  divine  by  the  Greeks;  the  Tulip,  held  by 
Persian  lover  to  be  the  emblem  of  his  passion 
for  the  mistress  of  his  heart;  Evening  Prim- 
rose, strange  flower  of  mystery;  Yellow  Day 
Lily,  with  its  pretty  old-fashioned  name, 
"Liricon  fancy" ;  the  Madonna  Lily,  white  and 
pure  as  the  name  it  bears;  Rosemary,  the  flow- 
er of  remembrance:  Daffodil  and  Primrose, 
sung  by  our  English  poets;  Larkspur,  Fox- 
glove, Speedwell,  Blue  Bonnet,  Bleeding  Heart, 
Sweet  Lavender,  stately  Hollyhock  and  splen- 
did Sun  Flower,  all  take  us  back  to  the  gar- 
dens of  our  childhood  or  suggest  poetic  fancies 
as  beautiful  as  themselves. 

The  flowers  themselves  are  touched  with  a 
finer  beauty  and  exhale  a  sweeter  perfume  be- 
cause of  what  they  are  in  our  thoughts  and 
what  they  recall.  Is  not  my  "  Dean  Hole  "  rose 
the  more  charming  because  it  bears  the  name 
of  that  great  lover  of  roses,  and  brings  to 
my  mind  the  many  beautiful  things  he  wrote 
about  roses?  Who  does  not  love  the  "wee, 

[64] 


modest  crimson  tipped  flower"  the  more  be- 

,  ,  D  A      u       i      •      i  [N  THE  GARDEN 

cause  the  eye  or  Burns  dwelt  so  lovingly  upon 

it? 

Who  would  not  cherish  with  tenderness  a 
plant  from  "Mother's  garden"  of  long  ago? 
Of  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  in  my  garden 
none  is  to  me  so  sweet  as  the  Madonna  Lily 
and  the  old  "Giant  of  Battles"  rose — my 
Mother's  favorites.  How  much  closer  would 
the  association  be  if  the  plants  themselves 
could  have  been  brought  to  my  garden  from 
that  which  the  Mother  tended,  but  that  could 
not  be,  for  the  hand  of  time  has  long  since 
brought  great  change  to  the  old  home  garden. 

One  lover  of  gardens  has  a  son  in  far-off 
China,  who,  before  leaving  his  home,  built  a 
pergola  in  the  rectory  garden.  That  pergola 
is  now  covered  with  Chinese  vines,  and 
about  it  are  grouped  fine  specimens  of  oriental 
shrubbery,  planted  there  in  honor  of  his  work 
so  far  from  those  who  love  him  best.  Does  not 
the  sentiment  which  prompted  the  planting 
and  nurture  of  those  plants  add  a  spiritual  qual- 
[65] 


rOICE  OF  ity  to  that  garden?  Do  not  the  associations 
which  they  recall  and  the  memories  which  they 
enshrine  make  them  richer  in  true  values  than 
the  rarest  which  money  merely  buys?  And  so 
my  garden  is  more  and  more  a  garden  of 
remembrance. 

While  writing  these  pages  I  have  had  in 
mind  a  truth  as  wide  and  deep  as  life. 

"The  love  of  flowers, "  Dean  Hole  says,  "is 
innate."  It  is  true.  The  little  child  needs  no 
instruction  from  books  or  teachers  to  look  with 
delight  upon  the  flowers.  Hard-working  men 
and  women,  though  shut  up  in  garrets  and 
crowded  streets  and  noisy  factories,  will  grow 
a  little  plant  or  two  in  the  window  and  watch 
with  pathetic  pleasure  the  opening  blossoms. 
Is  it  true,  also,  as  the  good  Dean  says,  that  this 
innate  love  of  flowers  is  "a  remembrance  of 
Eden"? 

Has  God  put  these  beautiful  flowers  every- 
where in  man's  path  to  remind  him  of  a  lost 
Paradise,  and  to  keep  alive  hope  of  a  Paradise 
to  be  regained?  It  would  seem  to  be  even  so, 

[66] 


for  He  who  came  to  reveal  the  Father  pointed  • 
to  the  flowers  to  teach  the  greatest  of  all  les-   ! 
sons,  the  lesson  of  trust  in  God,  when  he  said, 
"Consider  the  lilies." 

The  lilies!   They  that  toil  not  nor  spin!   A 
remembrance  of  Eden  before  the  toil  began! 


[67] 


VOICES  IN  THE  GARDEN 


A  GROUP  OF 
FAVORITES 


[70] 


VOICES 

IN  THE  GARDEN- 


VOICES  IN  THE  GARDEN 

THERE  are  voices  to  be  heard  in  the  garden. 
Some  are  audible,  as  in  the  songs  of  the  birds, 
the  humming  of  insects,  and  the  hymnings  of 
the  wind;  but  mostly  garden  voices  are  heard 
only  by  the  ear  of  an  imaginative  sympathy. 

There  is  a  language  of  the  flowers.  It  is  well 
to  question  them.  They  have  something  to 
tell  us. 

I  am  speaking  the  common  speech  of  man. 
The  literature  of  every  people  reflects  it.  The 
language  of  botany  is  full  of  imagery  that  sug- 
gests it,  but  it  is  the  common  names  of  the 
flowers  that  tell  best  how  the  mystical  mean- 
ings hidden  in  the  flowers  have  made  them- 
selves heard  in  human  speech. 

It  has  been  said  that  "the  botanical  name 
expresses  the  plant's  standing  in  the  scien- 


tific  world,  and  the  common  name  reveals  its 
THE  GARDEN       ,   ...  ,  .       „ 

relation  to  humanity. 

The  common  names  show  what  the  flowers 
have  been  to  man.  How  exquisitely  poetic 
many  of  them  are !  The  Easter  Lily,  the  Violet, 
Bluebell,  Blue  Speedwell,  Forget-me-not,  But- 
tercup, Snowdrop,  Lily  of  the  Valley,  Poet's 
Narcissus,  Sweet  William,  Carnation—  "to  tell 
their  names  is  to  recite  a  poem  of  grace  and 

light." 

What  a  story  these  names  tell  of  a  "long 
human  past  behind  them"!  How  affection- 
ately they  are  named!  The  whole  vocabulary 
is  filled  with  sentiment  in  which  love  delights. 

The  reality  in  it  all  is  seen  in  a  fact  as  old  as 
man  and  as  deep  as  life — the  fact  of  the  in- 
fluence of  nature  upon  the  heart  of  man.  It 
springs  from  a  sense  of  the  inner  life  of  things 
and  of  our  relations  with  them. 

Thoreau  says  that  there  is  a  flower  for  every 
mood  of  the  mind.  He  means,  I  think,  not  only 
that  every  flower  in  some  way  answers  to 
something  in  the  soul  of  man,  but  that  every 

[72] 


emotion  of  man  finds  in  the  flowers  something  VOIC 
that  answers  to  it.  Hence  we  find  in  the  com- 
mon names  of  so  many  of  the  flowers,  not  only 
something  of  the  life  of  the  plant  and  its  affili- 
ations, nor  merely  suggestions  of  likeness  to 
other  things  in  nature,  but  of  ideal  graces  and 
passions  expressive  of  man's  loves,  sometimes 
of  his  superstitions,  and  often  of  his  religion. 
Behind  every  flower  of  our  gardens,  and  the 
flowers  of  the  field,  is  some  memory,  or  in  it 
some  suggestion  of  things  deep  in  the  common 
heart  of  man.  There  is  in  truth  no  aspiration 
of  the  soul  which  may  not  find  an  answering 
note,  no  sorrow  of  the  heart  for  which  there 
is  not  a  message  of  peace. 

There  is  a  mystical  side  of  nature  which  calls 
to  the  soul  of  man  and  compels  the  feeling  that 
there  is  something  that  comes  through  mater- 
ial things  that  is  more  than  material,  that  is, 
indeed,  spiritual.  It  carries  our  thoughts  and 
feelings  out  of  the  material  to  something  akin 
to  our  own  spirits.  There  is  something  that 
comes  through  eye,  ear  and  imagination,  that 
[73] 


speaks  to  the  heart  and  conscience.  There  are 
hints  and  intimations  of  something  more  than 
eye,  or  ear,  or  mere  intellect  discovers. 

There  is  hidden,  somewhere,  in  every  one  of 
us,  the  mystic,  and  to  this  hidden  man,  out  of 
the  deep  mystery,  Nature  speaks.  It  may  be 
only  when  alone  amid  Nature's  vast  silences 
that  this  hidden  man  wakes  to  consciousness. 
There  he  touches  shoulders  with  strange 
things.  Some  realize  this  mystical  relation- 
ship with  nature  most  when  in  touch  with  na- 
ture's  gentleness,  but  each  of  us  is  most  con- 
scious of  it  when  most  alone  with  it. 

This  is  what  explains  the  charm  of  the  gar- 
den for  the  dreamer  when  twilight  deepens 
toward  night,  and  form  and  color  grow  less 
clear  to  sight,  and  the  sounds  of  the  outside 
world  are  stilled.  It  is  then  that  he  knows  him- 
self most  near  to  the  great  Mystery.  It  is  then 
that  he  learns  most  of  its  meaning,  though  only 
a  scent  with  lightest  breath  touch  him,  or  he 
hear  no  more  than  the  rustle  of  an  overturned 
leaf.  The  rose  of  summer,  or  the  leaf  of 

[74] 


autumn,  the  perfume  evanescent  as  the  dreams 
of  youth  or  lingering  as  the  memories  of  child- 
hood, each  has  for  this  soul  its  message,  sweet, 
wholesome,  and  true. 

If  only  we  could  find  words  to  tell  just  what 
the  flowers  say  to  us!  But  they  speak  a  lan- 
guage not  easy  to  translate  into  our  common 
speech.  The  thoughts  of  the  flowers  reach  into 
the  heart  of  things,  thoughts  often  too  big  for 
words. 

Then,  too,  the  flowers  have  their  high  re- 
serves. Few  have  their  full  confidence — none 
who  are  not  clean  of  heart.  Only  the  real  lover 
of  the  flowers  will  understand  their  speech. 
What  Mrs.  Hemans  finely  says  of  Walter 
Scott  among  his  trees  at  Abbotsford  tells  the 
way  we  must  learn  their  language,— 

Where  every  tree  had  music  of  its  own 

To  his  quick  ear  of  knowledge  taught  by  love. 

There  is  a  converse  of  the  garden  that  can 
only  be  heard  by  "that  inner  ear  that  re- 
members." 

[75] 


Some  one  has  said  that  the  Primrose  is  "a 
beautiful  eye  looking  out  from  the  great  inner 
sea  of  beauty."  What  does  the  soul  that  looks 
through  that  eye  say  to  you?  I  cannot  tell. 
It  depends  upon  what  it  sees  in  you. 

Go  with  me  into  my  garden.  It  is  the  call  of 
spring  that  we  hear.  Winds  from  the  South- 
land, melting  snows,  faint  odor  of  swelling 
buds,  the  note  of  the  first  bluebird,  these  are 
the  call  of  the  spring.  It  means  sunshine  and 
beauty.  The  shadow  spots  and  sheltered  nooks 
are  still  white,  but  little  sunny  knolls  in  my 
rock-garden  are  bare,  and  green  things  are 
shooting  up.  True,  the  snow  may  fly  again 
tomorrow,  but  a  thousand  voices  proclaim  the 
coming  of  our  old  garden  friends.  Through  the 
mellowing  earth  and  the  dead  leaves  some  of 
them  are  already  thrusting  their  heads.  It  is 
evident  that  they  are  expecting  us.  If  you 
understand  and  know  how  to  translate,  you 
will  hear  the  voices. 

The  first  to  greet  us  are  the  Snowdrops, 
"  fair  maids  of  February. "  Brave  little  flowers ! 

[76] 


See  how  they  hang  out  their  bells  as  if  to  greet  VOICI 
the  wind.    "Our  Lady's  Bells,"  we  call  them,  ' 
and  the  name  is  fitting,  for  nothing  in  nature 
speaks  more  plainly  of  courage  and  purity. 
We  think  of  that  "  First  snowdrop  of  the  year" 
which  lay  on  the  breast  of  the  nun  as  on  St. 
Agnes'  Eve  she  prayed  for  the  purity  of  its 
snows. 

Tomorrow,  or  perhaps  next  day,  certainly 
before  many  days,  we  shall  see  the  Hepatica 
open  its  blue  eyes  and  look  up  at  us  from  some 
nook  where  it  has  been  willing  to  accept  a 
home,  and  the  Crocus  will  lift  its  "chalice  cup 
brimmed  with  dew."  Do  they  not  speak  of 
a  purity  that  "knows  naught  of  fear"? 

Look  now  where  the  green  shoots  of  the 
Daffodils  pierce  the  mold  and  lift  their  brave 
trumpets  of  silver  and  gold.  Do  they  not  tell 
of  a  courage  that  "keeps  the  heart  strong  be- 
cause safe  in  the  Hand  that  fashioned  its 
beauty"? 

Can  you  not  hear,  when  winds  are  still, 
The  gay  fanfare  of  the  Daffodil? 

[77] 


The  Violets !  Who  does  not  love  the  Violets  ? 
Of  what  dear  memories  they  tell!  Who  would 
try  to  tell  what  they  have  whispered  in  the 
ears  of  young  love  ? 

Shakespeare  says/'Pansies  are  for  thoughts." 
Men  have  called  this  flower  "Heart's  Ease." 
Some  one  tells  how  a  knot  of  white  pansies  was 
given  to  a  poor  outcast  of  the  slums.  She 
looked  at  them  and  with  a  burst  of  tears  she 
answered  them,  "I'll  try!  Indeed  I'll  try!" 
Can  any  one  fail  to  know  what  the  pansies 
said  to  her? 

Summer  is  here.  Will  you  be  with  me  in  my 
garden  these  wonderful  days  of  summer? 

Every  tree  and  shrub  is  rustling  fresh  leaves. 
Bird  music  is  at  its  height.  The  summer  beau- 
t  ties  offer  us  their  flowers  in  blue,  and  white, 
and  yellow,  and  rose.  The  summer  flowers! 
What  a  chorus  of  voices  greets  us !  How  much 
they  have  to  tell  us!  I  ask  my  Hollyhocks, 
growing  there  at  the  end  of  the  path  or  in  yon- 
der corner,  and  they  always  tell  me  that  they 
are  there  that  I  may  have  "a  comfortable 

[78] 


sense  of  home."   I  never  miss  my  chat  with  the   void 
"Morning  Glories."  What  gay  gossips  they  are!   ! 
How  they  peer  up  and  down  as  if  eager  for  news ! 
But  they  are  never  unkind  in  their  gossip,  and 
always  have  a  word  of  cheer  for  the  day. 

Maeterlinck  speaks  of  the  "loud  laughter" 
of  the  Phlox,  and  do  we  not  hear  its  gay  note 
these  summer  days? 

A  recent  writer  calls  the  Scarlet  Sage  a 
"flaunting  braggart."  I  cannot  think  it.  To 
me  it  says,  "I  bravely  wear  the  color  given  me 
by  the  Hand  that  fashioned  me,  and  I  love  to 
bloom,  for  I  am  sent  to  lend  brightness  to  the 
world";  and  when  I  give  it  a  proper  setting 
among  the  green  things  of  the  border  with 
some  sweet  white  things  near  by,  its  bright- 
ness lightens  all  about  it.  It  is  doing  there  just 
what  I  would  have  my  sons  do — take  their 
place  where  God  calls  them  and  bravely  wear 
their  colors  in  the  face  of  all  the  world.  If  I 
misplace  my  Scarlet  Sage  the  fault  is  mine. 

I  often  find  myself  lingering  where  the  Mig- 
nonette grows.  Why  is  it  that  this  plain  little 
[791 


flower,  for  all  the  world  like  some  dear  little 

E GARDEN     .  ,  f    ,  .         .   .    ,  .  „          .      , . 

old-iashioned  lady,  is  so  universally  prized: 

Is  it  not  for  about  the  same  reason  that  we  love 
the  dear  little  old-fashioned  lady?  This  flower 
seems  to  speak  to  every  heart.  Just  what  it 
tells  me  I  am  as  unable  to  put  into  fit  words  as 
I  am  worthily  to  tell  the  influence  which  the 
dear  little  old-fashioned  lady  has  upon  me. 
Its  clinging  perfume  is  like  that  of  a  sweet  life 
lived  among  us.  That,  I  think,  is  the  secret  of 
its  charm. 

The  Poppy  is  to  me,  like  the  Evening  Prim- 
rose, a  flower  of  mystery.  Men  have  had  many 
beautiful  thoughts  about  it,  and  I  have  had 
mine.  Its  sunny  face,  like  a  cup  filled  with 
light,  is  as  open  as  a  child's  heart,  but  its 
drooping,  sleepy  buds  seem  always  to  be  hold- 
ing back  something.  The  Poppy  fascinates  me. 
It  must  be  the  hypnotist  of  the  garden.  Its 
seeds  bring  sleep. 

The  Rose!  Emerson  tells  us  that  the  Rose 
speaks  all  languages.  True  aristocrat  the  Rose 
is,  telling  of  gentle  blood  and  good  breeding, 

[80] 


yet  she  has  the  world's  heart  for  her  own.  It  VOICI 
must  be  that  she  calls  to  something  deep  in 
the  common  heart  of  man.  Does  Dean  Hole 
tell  us  the  truth  of  it  when  he  says,  "If  a  man 
would  have  beautiful  roses  in  his  garden,  he 
must  have  beautiful  roses  in  his  heart"? 

And  the  white  Lilies!  We  cannot  think  of 
them  without  thinking  of  the  Mother  who 
holds  a  stalk  of  them  as  she  bends  her  head  to 
listen  to  the  angel  of  the  Annunciation.  I  can- 
not tell  what  the  Madonna  Lily  says  to  me; 
it  is  enough  that  I  feel  it. 

And  so  I  go  from  flower  to  flower,  and  each 
has  something  to  tell  me.  I  can  understand 
why  men  have  given  them  such  charming 
names,  "the  softest  in  the  language."  To  me 
every  flower  that  blooms  in  my  garden,  every 
flower  that  blooms  anywhere,  is  beautiful  and 
full  of  meaning.  I  cannot  for  a  moment  accept 
the  statement  of  William  Morris  that  "red 
geraniums  were  invented  to  show  that  even  a 
flower  could  be  hideous."  I  could  no  more 
think  a  flower  "hideous"  than  I  could  think 
[81] 


a  child  so.  They  both  come  out  of  the  world- 
'  old  Mystery,  and  are  parts  of  a  plan  that  I 
believe  to  be  good.  I  think,  too,  that  if  we  but 
rightly  discern,  we  will  find  that  "all  that  lives 
creates  its  own  harmony." 

Yes,  there  are  voices  in  the  garden.  Every- 
thing that  lives  has  its  truth  to  teach,  and 
if  our  hearts  are  attuned  to  the  meaning  of 
things,  we  too  shall  hear  The  Voice  that  the 
first  man  and  woman  heard  in  that  garden 
which  God  planted  in  Eden  so  long  ago. 

Many  reverent  souls  tell  us  that  they  have 
heard  that  Voice  in  the  garden.  Ruskin  says, 
"And  so  it  is  with  external  Nature;  she  has  a 
body  and  a  soul  like  man,  but  her  soul  is  the 
Deity." 

O,  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  heaven  in  a  wild  flower, 

sang  the  poet  Blake,  and  Mrs.  Browning  wrote— 

There's  not  a  flower  can  grow  upon  the  earth 
Without  a  flower  upon  the  spiritual  side. 
Earth  is  full  of  heaven 
And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God. 

[82] 


One  of  the  recently  found  sayings  of  Jesus  is   VOICES 
this,  "  Raise  the  stone  and  there  thou  shalt  find 
me,  cleave  the  wood  and  there  am  I." 

Do  we  not  pause  reverently  before  such  say- 
ings as  these?  Do  they  not  quicken  our  sense 
of  divine  reality  in  Nature?  Happy  is  he  who 
walks  in  his  garden  with  something  of  the  soul 
of  the  poet  and  the  faith  of  the  Christian.  He 
will  discern,  not  only  the  beauty  of  form  and 
color,  not  only  the  beauty  of  the  parts  as  they 
relate  themselves  to  the  whole,  but  he  will  ap- 
prehend something  of  the  intimations — the 
great  thoughts — which  come  to  him  through 
their  beauty,  and  which  make  their  appeal  to 
the  soul  within  him.  With  eyes  to  see  he  may 
see  "the  flower  on  the  spiritual  side."  He  will 
discern  that  the  beauty  which  comes  to  him 
through  the  eye,  and  the  moral  light  which 
shines  from  behind  upon  the  soul,  come  from 
one  center  and  lead  upward  to  the  thought  of 
One  Being  who  is  above  both  and  yet  in  both. 

With  reverent  soul  he  will  hear  the  Voice  in 
the  cool  of  the  day. 
[83] 


OUT  FROM  THE  GARDEN 


OUT  FROM 
THE  GARDEN 


OUT  FROM  THE  GARDEN 

THIS  little  book  but  records  the  thought  of 
one  who  has  tried  to  translate  in  part  the  mes- 
sage which  the  flowers  bring  to  him.  It  is  a 
feeling  after  an  interpretation  of  nature  that 
will  answer  to  the  spiritual  in  man.  Itgrowsout 
of  the  conviction  that  in  spite  of  the  sterner 
aspects  which  Nature  often  wears,  there  is 
also  evidence  of  a  gentle  Goodness  as  well  as  an 
infinite  Wisdom  at  the  heart  of  things;  and  in 
nature  nothing  tells  us  this  so  persuasively  as 
do  the  beautiful  flowers.  If  this  booklet  should 
dispose  any  man  or  woman  to  seek  more  of 
the  meditative  life,  to  live  more  in  the  garden 
of  flowers  and  thoughts,  the  writer  shall  be 
glad. 

But,  after  all,  it  is  asked,  is  such  a  life  con- 
sistent with  the  noble  "impulse  of  service"  so 
[87! 


THE  VOICE  OF  characteristic  of  the  better  life  of  our  time  ?  It 
is  often  supposed  "that  to  be  a  nature-lover 
implies  unvexed  indifference  to  the  human  af- 
fairs of  the  time,  and  that  therefore  it  makes 
for  a  kind  of  serene  and  weak  utopianism." 
Does  not  the  impulse  of  service  lead  us  to  the 
place  where  men  most  gather,  the  city  rather 
than  the  country,  the  street  rather  than  the 
garden? 

Most  surely,  the  true  ideal  for  man  is  not 
that  of  the  meditative  life  of  withdrawal  from 
common  human  interests,  not  that  individual- 
istic spiritual  development  centering  the  soul 
upon  itself  and  its  moods,  but  that  of  service 
inspired  by  a  sense  of  community  of  life  and  of 
life's  interests.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
while  the  Bible  story  of  humanity  begins  in  a 
garden,  it  ends  with  a  vision  of  a  city. 

But  what  best  fits  us  for  the  service  of  man? 
Is  it  not  best  found  in  the  cultivation  of  a  sane 
and  stable  confidence,  an  unfailing  poise  and 
balance  of  mind  and  heart?  Without  such 
poise  and  repose  we  become  involved  in  the 


elaborate   artificiality   of  civilization   or   en-  ( 

,r    ,  -       ,  .,     f    .  ,  ,,  THE  GARDKN 

gulfed  in  the  turmoil  or  the  world  s  contend- 
ing passions.  We  need  inspiration  from  the 
direct  and  natural,  rest  from  the  strenuous  and 
complex.  We  need  to  go  at  times  where  things 
come  naturally  and  in  order. 

This  is  how  the  garden  helps  one  to  be  sweet, 
sane,  and  warm-hearted.  The  very  intensity 
of  modern  life  demands  such  quiet  as  the 
garden  affords  as  an  antidote  and  corrective. 
Nowhere  can  be  better  cultivated  what  one  has 
called  the  "reverent  attitude  toward  life." 
Every  one  who  heeds  the  call  to  service  knows 
how  much  we  need  what  the  same  writer  calls 
"spiritual  reactions."  How  often  the  servant 
of  Humanity  is  tempted  by  a  feeling  of  the 
utter  futility  of  his  work!  How  shall  we  keep 
hope  alive?  How  maintain -the  poise  and  bal- 
ance so  necessary? 

I  have  found  it  good  to  go  alone  into  my  gar- 
den. There,  too,  I  find  a  drama,  intense,  com- 
plex, ever-moving.  There,  too,  are  living  crea- 
tures, with,  as  Ruskin  says,  "histories  written 
[89! 


on  their  leaves,  and  passions  breathing  in  their 
motion."  But  there  is  order.  Nothing  is  pur- 
poseless. All  are  working  out  their  lives  to  the 
legitimate  end.  It  teaches  me  faith — faith  in 
the  unseen  Power  which  has  directed  all  things 
from  the  beginning,  faith  in  the  marvelous 
forces  without  which  my  plants  could  not  live 
and  grow  and  bloom.  It  teaches  me  to  put  my 
confidence  in  One  who  cares  for  His  creation 
and  steadily  works  His  will.  There  are  times 
when  it  is  well  to  be  reminded  that  the  uni- 
verse is  in  better  hands  than  ours.  The  One 
Perfect  Man  went  into  a  garden  to  get  strength 
for  His  cross. 

In  my  garden  I  learn  a  true  ideal  of  service. 
I  discover  how  foolish  is  the  notion  of  the  earth 
which  men  in  their  selfishness  have  cultivated. 
I  am  taught  that  it  is  not  true  that  here  on  the 
earth  all  things  exist  merely  to  please  man, 
that  the  eternal  forces  work  only  for  him.  As  I 
observe  the  life  of  the  plant  and  watch  its 
struggle  for  existence,  I  am  taught  a  real  re- 
gard for  its  rights.  But  I  am  taught  much 

[90] 


more  than  that.  I  see  that  the  plant  does  not  OUT  FROM 
exist  for  itself  alone.  Its  one  aim  is  to  give  its 
fruits  to  the  future.  It  exists  to  bloom  and 
ripen  seed,  and  often  yields  its  life  in  thus  giv- 
ing on  into  the  future  its  gifts  of  flower  and 
fruit.  The  plant  grows  and  blooms  and  bears 
fruit,  not  for  itself.  Nothing  comes  back  to  it. 
It  ripens  its  seed  only  to  increase  the  giving. 

Does  it  not  teach  us  the  deepest  truth  of  life? 
What  is  a  true  service  of  man?  What  is  love? 
What  its  glory?  Is  it  not  that  which  is  also  its 
pain?  The  love  of  a  parent  never  comes  back 
to  him,  but  is  carried  on  and  given  to  the  chil- 
dren's  children.  What  is  the  deepest  of  all  les- 
sons taught  by  Him  who  has  shown  us  in  Him- 
self the  love  of  the  Father  in  heaven  ?  Is  it  not 
that  all  love  is  a  gift?  It  came  not  back  to  the 
Man  of  Galilee  and  Calvary,  but  has  gone 
on  through  the  ages,  the  true  disciple  always 
pouring  out  on  others  what  to  him  is  so  un- 
stintingly  given. 

The  teaching  of  my  garden  does  not  end 
here.  The  rosebud  that  greets  me  in  the  morn- 

[91] 


ing  will  not  remain  a  bud.  It  must  needs  burst, 
for  the  life  within  it  is  so  abundant  that  it 
can  no  longer  contain  it  all,  but  in  blossomed 
brightness  and  swimming  fragrance  must  let 
forth  its  joy  and  gladden  all  the  air.  To  bloom 
is  the  law  of  its  life,  and  should  the  bud  refuse 
to  expand,  itwould  quickly  rot  at  heart  and  die. 
The  heart  that  refuses  to  give  will  as  surely 
wither  and  die. 

My  garden  teaches  me  another  lesson  with- 
out which  in  all  service  of  man  our  feet  would 
falter  and  our  hands  hang  down.  It  teaches  me 
hope  for  my  kind.  The  growing  cactus  is  not 
a  thing  of  beauty,  but  see  it  when  covered  with 
bloom.  It  is  a  blaze  of  light,  glorious  among 
flowers.  Things  human  are  not  always  beauti- 
ful. There  are  ugly  lives,  but  shall  we  not 
have  confidence  in  a  possible  bloom,  beautiful 
and  good  ? 

The  plants  in  my  garden  all  show  a  capacity 
for  culture.  All  these  beauties  have  come  from 
the  one  original  rudimentary  form  of  plant  life. 
And  what  marvels  of  beauty  there  are  in  our 

[92] 


gardens  that  are  not  so  in  their  wild  unculti-   OUT  FROM 

A  I    wu         i     •  «.u  THE  GARDEN 

vated  state!    What  glorious  roses  that  in  the 

wild  are  sweet,  but  simple  and  humble  in  com- 
parison! Yet,  inherent  in  the  wilding  is  the 
power  of  development. 

Shall  I  not  go  from  my  garden  out  among 
men  with  a  surer  confidence  in  the  possibilities 
of  spiritual  life? 

Is  it  not  well  now  and  then  to  get  away  from 
men  and  the  crowd  and  go  into  the  silence 
where  we  may  hear  the  Voice  in  the  cool  of  the 
day? 


93 


HERE  ends  The  Voice  of  the  Garden,  an  inter- 
pretation of  the  deeper  meanings  of  plant  life, 
touched  by  sentiment,  and  written  by  Abram 
Limvood  Urban,  as  a  tribute  to  his  wife,  and 
not  first  intended  for  publication.  Illustrated 
by  half-tones  from  photographs  of  the  author's 
home  garden  and  decorated  by  Grace  Lillian 
Urban,  the  author's  daughter,  the  whole  was 
done  into  a  Book  for  Thomas  Meehan  &  Sons, 
of  Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  whose  large 
nurseries,  founded  in  1854  by  the  late  Professor 
Thomas  Meehan,  have  so  greatly  contributed 
to  the  growth  in  the  American  people  of  that 
love  of  gardens  for  which  the  book  speaks. 
The  typography  and  binding  were  designed 
and  supervised  by  the  Service  Bureau  of  the 
Wm.  F.  Fell  Company,  who  printed  the  book, 
the  whole  being  done  and  completed  in  the  City 
of  Philadelphia,  in  the  month  of  October  and 
the  year  of  Our  Lord  Nineteen  Hundred  and 
Twelve. 


A     000045961     o 


